I See Your Hubris and I'll Raise You Fifty
by SydneyWoo
Summary: Winnie Guster always prided herself in her infinite patience. It was a simple invitation to join the Spencer family for dinner. She could suck up her pride and go for the sake of her son. After all, it was just dinner...right?
1. Chapter 1

Santa Barbara 1986

"But why?"

Henry sighed heavily. Shawn was nothing if not persistent, when it came to something he really wanted. He once again lamented his inability to instill that kind of work ethic within his son in every endeavor.

"Shawn…" He was tired of trying to reason with him as the child's whines grew more and more…whiney. Frankly, he was just plain tired. He had planned on coming home and relaxing after one of the more trying days he had in a long time. Arguing with a frustrated nine year old was not in the cards.

"Gus said I could go. He said there would be pony rides and everything."

"No Shawn! That's final." His normal restraint was shot after two months of overtime. He hadn't meant for anger that wasn't really directed towards the boy to come through. Tired or not, the lower lip quiver did him in.

"Come here, kid." Knees protested as he lowered himself on the front porch steps. "Gus may have said you could go, but it wasn't his decision. I know it doesn't seem fair, but sometimes the best way to be a friend is to step back for a while. You and Gus spend a lot of time together. It would really be nice to let Gus spend some time alone with his family. Understand?" Henry wrapped up his father-son speech with a tender ruffle to the longish hair under his hands. Just about time for another trip to the barber shop.

"No."

"Someday you will." Henry mused regretfully. Maddie had informed him of her observations, following a rare grown-ups-only lunch with Winnie Guster, as she packed her suitcase in preparation for her next out of town assignment; meaning it was now _his_ problem breaking the bad news to the kid. They both knew Shawn could be a trying child. He himself had been driven to the brink on more than one occasion. Without the bond of blood, Henry didn't know how he could restrain himself. Neither one could blame the Gusters. Still, it would be wise to limit the time Shawn spent with the other family for a while, giving them room to recover from his son's overwhelming energy.

Hopefully, Shawn wouldn't find out about this for a long time. Preparing his son for the horrors of the real world was one thing. Taking away his refuge was something Henry just couldn't bring himself to do. His son needed Gus; likewise, Gus seemed to need Shawn just as much.

He watched as his son dramatically ascended the staircase. Each footfall, heavier than the next, coincided with histrionic sighs bouncing off the woodwork. He felt a similar sensation in his gut as he mentally prepared for his next conversation. Even now, he was formulating a plan of attack as well as a list of concessions. He supposed he could promise to spend more time personally supervising the boys. That had to be one of her biggest gripes, the fear that Shawn's antics would hurt her baby boy. He had been meaning to do that same thing anyway. Working overtime on top of the afternoon shift had cost him too much time away from his family; he could hardly remember the last time he had seen Shawn when he wasn't peeking in on him while he slept.

With his prepared statement ready, he began dialing the Guster's phone number which had long ago been committed to memory. As the rotary face clicked backwards between each dial, he used the few seconds to take deep breaths in preparation.

"Hello, Winnie? Yeah, this is Henry Spencer. Have you got a minute?"


	2. Chapter 2

Santa Barbara

(23.427 years later)

"Come on, Gus! It'll be fun. Funner than our joint family vacation to Disneyland." As the wadded ball left Shawn's fingertips, time seemed to slow down. Shawn could hear the faded echo of the cheering crowd, chanting his name and praising his great hair and heroism. The paper projectile reached the apex of its upward motion – giving the illusion of actually stopping in mid-motion – before beginning its descent. It completed its brief, yet glorious, career in a perfect arc before landing squarely in the middle of his friend's shiny sample case.

"No Shawn – I'm not going to do it." Pity that Gus wasn't paying attention as _this_ was the mother of all paper-balls. In the history of all paper-ball tournaments, Shawn could remember five truly _perfect _paper-balls. The average person was lucky if they experienced even one perfect paper-ball in a lifetime. He shuddered, as he often did when pondering the normalcy of others and their sad little lives. The motion helped focus his attention back on the present discussion at hand.

"You don't have to _dooo_ anything but ask, Gus. Don't be a weenie."

"It's not being a weenie, Shawn. It's picking the hill I want to die on. Let me tell you something, that is NOT the hill I want to die on." Gus wrinkled his nose as he delicately picked up the edge paper wad between his thumb and index fingers, removing the item from his case. His friend's confusion, as if it just registered that he didn't remember packing this particular item, didn't go unnoticed as Shawn smothered his amusement.

"Who said anything about hills…or dying. This was your idea, remember Mr. Morbid?"

"No Shawn, it wasn't. _My _ideas involve places of cultural interest." Gus chimed in as he gathered, or attempted to gather, several rogue piles of drug formularies and new product brochures in a semblance of order.

"I beg to differ." Shawn immediately scoffed. "Your ideas may have culture, but I can guarantee you they aren't remotely interesting."

"Whatever, Shawn." Gus shuffled the stack of brochures, vainly attempting to stack them in a tidy bundle. "I don't know why this is even important to you." He gave up trying to neatly shuffling the stack, resorting to banging the heap on the desktop.

"Are you kidding? We've got to get the family back together, man. You know, play it up. Hug. Cuddle. Maybe play a game of catch with our dad's. It will be like The Brady Bunch meets Field of Dreams. I'll even let you play Shoeless Joe."

Shawn assumed Gus had tuned him out completely as he wrestled his mound of paperwork into submission. You knew Gus was serious when his tongue peeked out of the side of his mouth. Gus always thought it made him look Jordan-esque. _Nothing could be further from the truth, _he remembered telling him one afternoon. _It makes you look like Beethoven…and not the piano guy, either._ His friend's expression then pretty much mirrored the look he was getting now as Gus' head snapped up in indignation.

"No way am I going to play Ray Liotta, Shawn. How many times do I have to say it?"

"Well you can't be James Earl Jones! He was old and he wore suspenders." Shawn stated as he painstakingly tore another page out of the magazine. The trick to the perfect paper-wad ball was symmetry; it's all in the tear. "Besides, suspenders are a gateway fashion offense. Suspenders lead to bow ties. Bow ties lead to sweater vests. I have too much invested in you to let you backslide." The last of the page came away cleanly, excepting for the nicked corner. An amateur wouldn't be able to handle such a happenstance. But, an artist such as himself could still create a masterpiece where mere mortals were doomed to failure.

"Forget it."

"Okay, okay. You can be James Earl Jones. You happy now?" The negativity in the room could very well doom this paperball to obscurity. That would be a tragedy.

"No! And I mean _forget it_ becauseI am not asking my parents to go to your Dad's house for the Fourth of July. That's just messing with tradition."

"Yeah, the tradition of 'lame'"

"Tradition is tradition Shawn. It's not going to happen."

"Fine then. I just don't want to be there when you break the news to your dad." Shawn said smoothly as he methodically rolled the last magazine page into a tight bundle.

"What news?"

"Oh, the news that he can't show off his new boat. And he was so happy too…" Shawn let the thought trail off as he leaned back in his chair, letting another ball fly from his fingertips as punctuation.

"You already planned this with my Dad?"

"Keep your voice down, man. You'll scare away the gulls on the _other _side of the bay. Besides Gus, it was mostly his idea. He just needs your Mom's sign off. I told him you would be totally happy to help."

"Nope. Not gonna do it. I have three presentations to make today. _You_ planned this, _you_ make it happen." Gus shrugged on his suit jacket. He took an extra moment to admire his own reflection, curling his lip in apparent approval as he straightened his tie and adjusted his lapels with a flourish.

"Gus! We're supposed to go to the station now. We were actually invited this time!"

"Bye Shawn…" Gus halted his exit briefly as he looked down at the floor, processing the twenty-odd discarded paper wads littering the floor. He resolutely refused to make eye contact with his friend as he resumed his impressive egress.

"Fine, but I'm going to be Ray Liotta _and _Kevin Costner!" Shawn yelled out, struggling futilely to tone down the pitch of his voice.

_Five…four…three…two…one….._

As Gus failed to rematerialize, Shawn looked down longingly at his last ball – lips forming into a pout. His good mood was gone and with it the heart for a last round of trashcan basketball. He tossed the lonely scrap onto the top of his desk, releasing a frustrated huff of breath.

If this was the way Gus wanted to play this, then fine. He could certainly handle this meeting on his own. As he looked down at his watch, he calculated the time he would need to prepare for his meeting with the Chief. He had been working on a new vision routine for weeks that he had been looking forward to debuting this week. He supposed he could improvise and channel Gus as well. It would certainly add to the complexity, but if he pulled it off – it just may be the best vision _ever._

Seizing the return of his confidence _and _his good mood, he grabbed the magazine and carefully pulled out another three sheets. He would have to hurry up and use up this issue before Gus got back from his almighty sales route. If he discovered the partial remains of his latest (and unread) issue of _Safecracker's Weekly_scattered throughout the office, psychic or not, Shawn could easily deduce this would not go well.

_That'll teach him. _

Determined to make the best of the circumstances handed to him, Shawn was perfectly happy to skip though the SBPD doors all on his lonesome. Gus would see it his way in the end. He always did. If not now then certainly once he opened the next credit card statement, he would see the error of his ways and just go along with the program the _first _time it was presented.

Going through the rituals of signing in with the receptionist, telling a few fortunes in the guise of perusing over files and flirting with the occasional passerby, Shawn finally stopped dead in his tracks in front of the whiteboard. Taking in the board as a whole, a few items couldn't _help _but jump to the forefront.

_This is an awesome case_. His eyes scanned the images to memory. Robbery, murder, and a suspected connection to a local heiress – what's not to love?

He _had_ to get himself involved. The lack of one Burton Guster, who would normally try and talk him out of anything this interesting, could be a hidden blessing after all.

Quickly, he considered his options. He already pretended to channel a spirit from the fichus last week. Although the fichus species is renowned for being notorious gossips, he didn't think that would fly two weeks in a row. Narrowing his options down to two or three possible visions, postponing his new material debut until next week, he entered Chief Vicks office with a flourish.

"Mr. Spencer!" The tone was one of rebuking a bad puppy for soiling the new rug.

_Uh-oh._

Vick appeared more annoyed than she usually pretended to be. The extra large coffee mug and matching under eye bags confirmed that the more conservative vision option number three would be appropriate.

"I feel like dancing!" Bringing up his arms to hold an imaginary partner, he proceeded to waltz through the office. "One-two-three. One-two-three. I'm getting classical music…why am I getting classical music?"

"Mr. Spencer. Sit down; you're making me dizzy. Let me assure you that you can't _afford _to make me frustrated."

Quickly taking the cue, Shawn rushed to the chair and quickly sat down. He appeared to be the picture of boyish innocence as he folded his hands neatly into his lap.

Leaning forward, he poured every ounce of concern into his expression. "I feel your tension, Chief." Closing his eyes, he then raised his left lid ever so slightly as he put his fingers to his temples. "You are a dingy…"

"I'm a what?!" It didn't take a psychic to sense that he'd pushed too hard on that analogy. He would have to recover this one fast.

"Shhhhh…let me finish – the spirits do not like to be interrupted. Yes…yes…I see you are a dingy on the ocean. There are…yachts all around you…they're making waves because they're rich and powerful."

He opened his eyes as his head snapped up, looking her in the eye.

"Chief, I can help you. You need me. We can sink those yachts."

"No Mr. Spencer. Detectives Lassiter and O'Hara are fully capable of handling the Stratford investigation. I have something else in mind for your _special _talents."

She shuffled through the papers on her normally organized desk. Shawn noted the stack of case files threatening to spill onto the floor. She was working through a backlog of emails, evidenced by the reflection off of the picture frame. The pressure coming down from above must be big to scatter all of Chief Vick's ducks from their normally neat and orderly rows.

Further commentary was cut off as she found the file, triumphantly slapping it on the desk before taking a victory swig of coffee. That done, she sighed in appreciation and handed the file to him. He had the distinct impression that her expression was one that dared him not to take it. He wasn't sure what was in her coffee, but his very trustworthy survival instincts demanded that he take this case and not put up too much protest.

"Copper thieves, Mr. Spencer. The SBPD is understaffed at the moment. And, as you have so well noted, I am under a great deal of pressure with the Stratford case."

Raising a hand to cut him off the very instant he opened his mouth, she continued.

"I do _not _require your assistance with the other case. What I do need is extra manpower to assist with other cases we are dealing with. That is where you come in. We are dealing with a rash of home and business break-ins. The thieves are targeting copper wherever they can find it, including wiring and fittings. They appear to be loosely organized. They leave behind no evidence to speak of. Your job, Mr. Spencer, is to get a psychic reading on who is behind the activities and where their next target may be. _We_, meaning not you, will handle the rest. Are we understood?" Evidently, she thought there was nothing more to say as she turned back to her computer. Dumbstruck, Shawn could only stare for the moment, not sure how this had turned so badly on him.

"But Chief…" Unable to keep the whine from his voice, he figured he may still be able to pull this around if he poured on an extra helping of charm. Taking a deep breath, he cocked an eyebrow and sculpted an award winning smile…

"Let me make myself perfectly clear…are we understood?" It was creepy how she could sometimes channel his dad in the ability to deflate his plans without even looking at him. He wondered if that came with being a cop…or being a parent? Perhaps a little of both?

And with that, his smile evaporated. Whatever was in that coffee, Shawn vowed to make sure Vick never partook of it again.

As he shuffled his way across the parking lot, he perused through the file. This case was decidedly uncool. He, mostly meaning Gus, would still give this one some attention…_after_ he learned a little bit more about Mr. Stratford.

Copper theft could wait. So someone lost a faucet handle, big deal. Fame and notoriety won over missing plumbing any day of the week. Imagining the press attention, he felt his good mood creeping back. Shawn double checked that the case file was secured in the Norton's saddlebags and slid on his helmet. Kick starting the bike with a flourish – so what if it had an automatic start…everyone knows that kick starts are cooler– Shawn smoothly maneuvered out of the parking lot.


	3. Chapter 3

Snapshots littered the desk. Layers of grainy photographs wallpapered the surface. The blessings of modern technology provided in cell phone cameras ensured that life's most precious moments (or SBPD whiteboards) could be preserved for future generations. Sure he had a photographic memory in his own right. But digital zoom and Photoshop enhancement meant that he could keep his eyes diverted to more…pleasant...sights while simultaneously snapping away.

At this moment, though, Shawn was napping away. Layers of grainy photographs doubled as a rather poor pillow as he slowly discovered. He didn't mean to fall asleep. _Intentions_, his dad would say, _are useless – show me results, kid._ Shawn groaned as Henry-in-his-head wouldn't shut up. Another groan for good measure as Shawn cursed the newfound crick in his neck. Slowly, he raised his head. One of the snapshots remained attached to his face. Who knew laser jet ink and drool combined to form super-paste? He winced as he pulled away the paper and with it more than one precious hair follicle.

With a start, he looked at his watch before breathing a sigh of relief. He had plenty of time to do some more legwork on the case - aka the Stratford case, not the lame one – before wrapping things up. Well, he had plenty of time without any more impromptu naps. He could avoid that fairly easily. As long as he stayed moving, he would be fine.

Kicking back in his chair, he rolled about four feet away from the desk. More than one desk chair face off against Gus had taught him that keeping one's legs parallel to the floor gave the best aerodynamics. Shawn bounced out of the chair and gave it a shove, sending it back to its proper place. He then turned his attention back to the window pane. He popped the cap off a dry erase marker and began to draw a crude schematic of the whiteboard. Sure it was double working since he already had reprinted photos of the real whiteboard as well as all of the info committed to memory. The task helped him focus, and he needed to focus. Instinct screamed that there was a connection here. He _knew _it; he just couldn't see it.

Everything he needed to make the connections was right here…somewhere. Whatever he couldn't snag from the whiteboard, he managed to find through his own research. The reproductions weren't bad, but they were doable. He was pretty proud of himself, actually. What he wanted was the little spy camera made especially for snatching quick photos of secret documents. It always fascinated him. How he longed for a little camera where you push the ends together and the picture snaps. Maybe Gus would buy him one for Christmas? Maybe Gus would have to buy him one without realizing it.

Shiny-thing indulgence over, Shawn again focused on the information mocking him. All the paperwork was legit. The yacht was insured for full replacement value. The police report filed on the robbery prompted an APB by the Coast Guard. They still haven't found the boat, but did locate the body of an unfortunate marina worker who Lassiter insisted 'surprised' the thieves. One week later, Mr. and Mrs. Stratford magically cut through the last ribbon of red tape and took the keys of their new yacht.

All the pieces were in order. Everything was done by the books. Thank you, and good night. Other than the fact that it smells funny that the rich and powerful Mr. Stratford (funny, cause he was the one who married money) must have his own personal insurance adjustor – does that make him a suspect? Shawn looked over his shoulder for an answer, forgetting that Gus ditched him to work his _other_ job. Big whoop. And no, to answer his own question, working every loophole in his favor may make Stratford a jerk, but not necessarily a crook. At least, not without proof.

_Which is here…somewhere. _

This would be so much easier if he could see the scene of the crime. Impossible as the yacht was still missing and the body of the marina worker was dumped into the ocean. Still, Shawn wanted to case the marina looking for clues. He was starting to regret that the Gusters were bringing their boat to his dad's place. It was almost fate the way this case came about. If he had more time to work the system, he could have finagled a change in location where he could scope out the marina in the guise of a legitimate dinner party. But, if this went well he was sure he could achieve the same result by inviting himself back over later in the week.

He finally resolved that the answer was eluding him on purpose. Like any self respecting fake-psychic, Shawn decided to consult with the 'spirits' further. Unless, of course, his dad was out – then he would just stick with a beer.

Hey, speaking of his dad…

Glancing at his watch, he made some new calculations. He had five minutes to spare before he would have to leave. Then he would run to the store, fight with the bazillion other people also picking up some last minute items, and buy some necessities to take to his dad's house. Under no circumstances could he be late for dinner preparations. Henry was a tough negotiator. As a concession for the dinner party with the Gusters, his dad's list included tree pruning, gutter cleaning _and_ an afternoon sanding an old desk. Shawn feared any additional conditions that would be demanded if he were late. The current list was dangerous enough as it was – he couldn't afford to push his luck if he wanted help with any cases for the rest of the year.

Then again as snippy as Gus had been today, his dad might be the lesser and safer of two evils. No worries. Eventually, Gus would come back to his side – especially when he told him about his own personal new case. Not the Stratford case, that puppy was his. No, he was sure Gus would be thrilled to hear how Chief Vick trusted him so much that he deserved a case of his very own.

Gus' parents will be so proud of their son. He _was _a good influence after all!


	4. Chapter 4

Shawn, rarely, was one to grant his Dad any compliments. Henry Spencer did have a few redeeming qualities, however. First of all, if you could win the man's loyalty – you had it for life. If anyone needed evidence, Shawn would simply state '_plaid'._ Plaid had become Henry's friend years ago and the man staunchly defended its use. Secondly, his Dad didn't believe in letting people go hungry. He wasn't the type to make everyone salivate longingly in front of a table spread with food, just because one dish didn't have the decency to be done. If the chicken couldn't keep up with the rest of the dinner, then the chicken (like every other loser who fell behind) deserved to be left for last.

So here they all sat, sans the main course that refused to barbecue any faster, fully prepared to partake of the side dishes.

"Thank you Henry for allowing us to take part in this…unusual…meal." Mrs. Guster, her ever gracious self, elegantly bowed her head. Henry, not one to bow down before any backhanded compliment simply returned the favor – and the narrowed gaze.

"Well, thank you Winnie. If you remember, I did promise dinner at 4 o'clock sharp. I believe it's rude to keep guests waiting."

"Oh but of course, you're right." With many years of mediating parental squabbles, Shawn felt the need to commence eating with all due speed. Polite company guaranteed that one should not trade barbs with one's mouth full. It was most definitely time to encourage all parties to start shoveling their faces.

"Hey Gus, pass the ketchup woul…wh…what?" His friend's eyebrows had taken on life of their own as they raised and waggled independently. His slightly confused amusement faded as Gus' head began to mimic his eyebrows.

"Are you having a seizure…?" His lips pursed slightly as he looked all around him to find a cause for Gus' weirdness.

Winnie again spoke with the same leveled tone. "I'm so sorry my casserole doesn't meet your standards, Shawn." His head slowly turned to meet the cold and legendary Winifred Guster Glare of Death. "But please…do feel free to smother three hours of handcrafted preparation in sauce. I would hate for you to feel pressured to taste it first."

Shawn felt vaguely like Bambi, sucked into the tractor beam of on oncoming semi.

Unable to move…

Unable to blink…

Unable to think…

Unable to do anything - except stare down his eighteen-wheeled fate, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.

"Umm…" Nervously licking his lips, he looked around for a distraction to grasp with white knuckled fingers of desperation. The rest of the world blurred out of focus except for his amigo, his brother-in-arms. Gus rolled his eyes into his previously seizing eyebrows and threw his head back as he began his Lamaze exercises.

"Go on, Shawn – here's your ketchup."

_Oh God – it's a trap! I can't take the ketchup without insulting her, but if I take it I'll just make her mad. _

"I don't want it."

_I'm gonna die._

"No?" Mrs. Guster leveled her eyes at him again, staring into his retinas. He swore she was doing something otherworldly because he could feel his eyeballs burning.

"No, I'm fine," he insisted.

"Boy - now that's some _fiiine_ casserole. You don't want to mess it up." Mr. Guster was a traditional sort. You don't refuse your elders in a request, even if the misguided request was a trap. Shawn felt another twist of his gut as Mr. Guster's head cocked to the left as he placed his elbows on the table and clasped his really, really big hands. Hands so big they could wrap completely around his…

"Mmmm…" Self preservation was now his master as he proceeded to pile his plate full of Mrs. G's special, artisanal casserole.

"Yummy!" He managed to choke around the dryness. His cheeks were stuffed with undetermined ingredients. Bread crumbs clung to his lips and flaked onto his shirt, down into his neckline. Swallowing, or rather attempting to swallow required all of his attention. Barely gulping down a tasteless lump in his throat, he pasted a big smile on his face and stuck another heaping forkful into his mouth.

Out of the corner of his misery, he spied his father's open amusement at his predicament. His dad could pull off an entire conversation simply by tilting back in his chair and crossing his arms. This look was one of sadistic curiosity.

Five bites were the magic number to turn off the Winifred Guster Glare of Death. When she finally released him from her eye hold, he allowed himself to release the stored tension in his lungs. The last mouthful was more stubborn than the first four. His throat tightened uncomfortably as its moisture supply had dried up in the effort to move the last vestiges of portland cement from his system.

"Hey Dad, can you pass me a beer?" His voice came across a bit raspy from the abuse it had suffered.

Gus' eyebrows again began dancing as Shawn opened his mouth in confusion.

"I'm so sorry that my casserole is too dry for your exacting tastes, Shawn."


	5. Chapter 5

Fully aware that awkwardness did exist in the universe, but not terribly familiar with the sensation when experienced firsthand, Shawn couldn't help but squirm in his chair. The motion didn't actually resolve anything; his ears still burned in discomfort and four pairs of eyes still drifted aimlessly among tight quarters.

"Is this what you had in mind for the evening?" The hissed whisper nearly startled him. Shawn was also perturbed to note that his friends tone wasn't one sincerely asking for information. This was the tone of _I already know the answer but I want an excuse to use big words and/or useless knowledge specifically designed to impress, annoy or otherwise humiliate you._

"Decidedly not. But thank you, Mr. Morose."

"When is it going to get _funner_ again? I forgot." Point punctuated with the raise of an eyebrow, did little to improve Shawn's mood.

"We need a diversion."

"We need to end this evening while we're ahead."

"Gus, don't be a pessimistic porpoise. We can salvage this."

"We can't salvage this Shawn. You've gone too far this time." Gus' whisper escalated another two notches.

"What do you mean _I've_ gone too far? I seem to recall that you've found your way to Henry's bad side for the first time in…ever." Shawn's eyes challenged Gus to deny it. Gus' eyes had no part of the conversation, but his mouth was surely up to the challenge.

"Don't. Just…don't. _You_ started it Shawn. You were the one who told my mom that she reminds of you Mrs. Huxtable."

"Gus, she reminds _everyone_ of Mrs. Huxtable. Jeez, we've talked about this."

"No, Shawn. You're the only one who sees it. You're the only one who's _ever_ seen it. Twenty years and you still won't let it go. Give it up, man."

Shawn's eyes narrowed at the snippiness in his friend's voice. Gus didn't see the connection because he didn't want to see it. Gus would get his the next time he faced Henry alone. _Compare my mom to Cybill Shepherd, will you?_

Gus wasn't finished with the argument, of that Shawn was certain. However, he still made a point to change the subject as he usually does. "Besides, our dad's have finally called a truce. We need to leave now before they start in again."

"You may be right about that, but I have a better idea. We'll go back to the house and get the fishing gear. Your dad had _his_ moment in the sun by impressing us all with his boating skills since his boat is bigger, badder and actually works – even if he does refuse to leave the dock. If we give Henry a chance to dazzle us with his fish whispering, then _both_ dad's get a chance to shine and we won't have to hear about it for the next three months. What say you?"

"You're forgetting something in your brilliant plan Shawn."

"Really? I believe I've covered everything."

"My mom."

"Your mom."

"Yes, Shawn. My mom."

"No Gus, you're supposed to say 'your mom'. We've covered this in _Remedial Insults 101."_

"I'm not trying to insult you, goofus. You've forgotten my mom in your master plan. She's going to be pissed. Correction - she _is _pissed. She's gonna kill you."

"I admit it. She could be a problem." The solemn nod gave way as Shawn slapped his friend on the back in a gesture that was surely meant to be encouraging. "I have the utmost confidence in your ability to pull her around. Why don't you take her to lunch?"

"Why don't you update your will?"

"That's the spirit. Now, let's go get that fishing gear!" Hard experience had taught Shawn never to give Gus an option. His friend appreciated having the plan laid out for him. He _really_ appreciated it if said plan was instituted immediately. The less time Gus was given to talk himself out of having fun, the better. Shawn was happy to indulge his friend in his quirks. Bouncing out of the chair, mindful of the squeak of new vinyl in his wake and the exacerbated rocking motion of the craft, he grabbed his friend by the elbow and dragged him away from the sputtered protests of the indignant group they were leaving behind.

"We'll be back in a bit, folks. Amuse yourselves as we prepare for the highlight of the evening!" Calling out his assurances over his shoulder, he was quite proud of himself as he envisioned the success of his new plan.

The sharp staccato of homemade specials echoed across the water's surface. With it, the odor of burnt gunpowder carried in the salt air. The 'pre-fireworks' fireworks were just beginning. This was amateur hour, where drunken locals deceived themselves into believing their fireworks tent sale specials could begin to compete with the big dogs. There was still plenty of time before the real show began. He and Gus would be back long before then to put the family chemistry back in order.

This evening would mark a new era of the Spencer-Guster family relationship. He could feel it, and it felt _great_.


	6. Chapter 6

Winnie wearily made her way up the porch. It had been a long day; longer than most. The only thing standing between her and her comfortable and feminine home was one last sweep through this house, making sure she had all her things. She feared if she left a single dish here, it would never be seen again. She snuffed at the thought that she could always hire her son and that bohemian-ragamuffin-psychic to find her Grandmother's casserole dish. Well, _hiring_ was an overstatement. She would insist that the job be done pro-bono to make up for all the anguish that boy had caused her through the years, which wouldn't even touch the countless broken windows, appliances and –Good Lord Almighty- never ending doctor bills.

Wiping her feet on the worn sisal rug, she reached for the screen door as she pulled her shawl tighter around her neck. The night was unseasonably cool. Still, it had been a pleasant break from the recent oppressive heat. It would likely be another scorcher tomorrow, so she would try and absorb as much of the coolness that she could stand – which apparently wasn't much. Her wandering mind was just another casualty from the length of the day. Spending a day with this family always taxed her energy; yet another reason why these occurrences were so rare and _only_ due to her persistent Burton.

She made her way through the darkened kitchen. It was unfamiliar to her and she didn't feel like searching for a light switch. There was enough light filtering through the window to allow her to make her way. Quickly, she began the process of collecting her items. Thankfully, her host was considerate; all of her serving dishes were carefully washed and dried. It would almost be a shame to rewash them when she got back home. She had learned long ago that men never washed dishes to her standards. Maybe she would just do them tomorrow after getting a full night's sleep.

_Now all I need is my purse and we can leave this…cave. _

So focused on her task, she was startled when she walked in the living room to discover the younger Spencer sprawled out on the couch. She stopped suddenly and waited for a few moments. When it became obvious that the young man was dead to the world, she released the breath she didn't even realize she had been holding. Willing her heart rate back to normal, she continued through the room with a growing sense of disgust.

"Lazy, good for nothing, troublemaker…" Without an audience to quell polite inhibition the insults rolled off her tongue in a muttered litany, each one growing stronger than the next.

The boys had left just before the show about a half an hour before with some flimsy excuse. Thankfully when the fireworks began, they had all been spared from more uncomfortable small talk - as if she hadn't had enough of that tonight. Nevertheless, she would still have words with Burton later.

She snatched her abandoned purse from the coffee table and strongly resisted the urge to check its contents…just in case. Priding herself in her restraint, she turned around to retrace her steps back to the kitchen. For the second time in as many minutes she once again found herself glued to the floor, not paused from a mild startle as before, but frozen in unadulterated terror.

The purse slipped from her numb fingers, hitting the hardwood floor with a hollow thud. Her lipstick case tumbled out and rolled under the end table, ignored.

Her voice was frozen. She had tried desperately to scream. Her mouth was open. There was air being directed over vibrating vocal chords, but no volume was produced – serving to only fuel her panic. She _had_ to be able to scream; she simply had to. Her thoughts stilled as she frantically searched for a word, any word that would bring help. One word was all she needed. Any word would do. Just one would unlock her tongue from the roof of her mouth and act as the catalyst to restore her to movement. A picture flashed in her mind's eye…a man…with a name. Rational thought was starting to return to her control. She had to get control, her son depended on it!

"**BIIIIILLLLL!"**

Even as she progressed towards hyperventilation and found her vision tunneling her eyes never left the sight in front of her. The tears now flowed freely, even though her feet betrayed her, as she stared at the sight of her son. Her precious Burton lay slouched in the recliner, hidden in the dark corner. Blood trailed from his hairline, down the side of his face, streaking his neck until being absorbed into the collar of his navy blue polo.

She couldn't tell if he was breathing; she wasn't sure she had the courage to check. As long as she wasn't sure, there was a _possibility _he was still alive.

The men must have heard the panic in her voice as they came storming through the door.

"What is it?!"

Vocalization, again, left her. All she could do was point to the chair containing the unconscious, _oh Lord – please let him only be unconscious, _body of her son.

"Oh my…" two long steps and her husband was by his side.

Out of the corner of her eye, she barely registered Henry looking the other direction before he moved out of her field of vision. She didn't have room to worry about what had caught his attention. Nothing else mattered than the scene before her.

"Is he…alive?" The last word was cut off in a choked whisper, unable to complete the thought she gave in to her tears.

"He's breathing, that's all I know." Bill's concerned voice vibrated through her. He was breathing. He _is_ breathing. He _is_ alive.

"I think he's coming round!"

The invisible bonds that held her fast snapped. She found herself hurtling towards the chair. The motion made her dizzy, almost as if she were catapulted from her former location. Dropping down to her knees, she took his face in her hands, giving him the gentlest of shakes – willing him to wake faster.

"Burton, can you hear me?"

She tried to listen closely, but there was too much noise. It angered her. Her son was hurt while that…that…_vagabond_ just lounged around, napping the night away. She whipped her head around and prepared herself to speak her mind and found herself, again, speechless and confused.

The sight before her just didn't track. Henry Spencer knelt by the couch; one hand on his son's forehead, the other on his chest shaking gently.

"Shawn?"

Henry's heart rate tripled from the second Winnie's scream echoed across the front lawn. Years of conditioning had him reaching for the phantom holster at his side, even as he raced towards the house. He paused next to the door, back to the house, the briefest of hesitations to assess the situation before moving in. Bill Guster had already stormed in after his wife in typical civilian manner. Shaking his head in frustration at the rash maneuver, Henry could only follow his path with the hope of taking in as much as he could before the proverbial bull could trample the china shop of evidence.

Upon his entrance into the doorway of the darkened living room, he saw nothing unusual. Shawn stretched out on his couch wasn't, in and of itself, unusual. Entering the room further, he was able to turn around and take in the sight that had sent Winnie into hysterics. Gus, his son's adopted brother lay in Henry's own recliner bleeding rather heavily from a head wound. Confusion - shock - anger - warring emotions vied for dominance, all trying to push through the same doorway and accomplishing nothing but jarred shoulders. He had known Gus for a very long time – long enough to become rather attached to the young man. Realization settled into his gut, overwhelming him with dizzying nausea. He quickly left the young man in the care of his parents and made it to the couch in two long strides.

A quick hand to the forehead confirmed the absence of fever. Henry then placed a hand on his chest, giving a gentle shake.

"Shawn, come on. Wake up kiddo."

His training never prepared him for this. No amount of academy provided training could prepare a parent for walking into their home to the scene revealed to him now. His son was most definitely not sleeping. No way could even a world champion sleeper like Shawn, maintain a deep REM cycle with this commotion. Unlike Gus, he had no obvious wounds to explain his lack of awareness. The dim light didn't afford Henry the luxury of checking his pupils. He didn't dare leave his son's side until he had a semblance of a clue just to track down one of the multitudes of penlights he had stashed around his house, _just in case_. Depending on doing things the old fashioned way, he took Shawn's head gently in his hands as he felt all around his son's skull. Finding no obvious bumps or scrapes that would give rise to an explanation, Henry sat back on his heels once again as he gave himself another moment to think.

"Alright Pal, fun's over. Time to wake up." He didn't even care if Shawn picked up on the concern in his voice and decided to wake up right now and poke fun at his old man. Rather, he would certainly welcome it as the one thing – the _only _thing - that would erase the growing dread that threatened to give rise to complete panic.

Frustrated, and well past worried, Henry ran a hand over his close cropped scalp as struggled to find the missing piece to the puzzle. He performed another visual scan of his son's body.

He's breathing…good.

No head wound.

No lumps.

No bumps.

No consciousness.

No visual marks anywhere…

"_That's your problem, Shawn. You have to broaden your vision. You have to look at the outskirts of the case."_

"_What does that even mean? Look at the 'outskirts' of the case…"_

"_Sometimes, you have to turn something upside down to view it right side up. And there's your prize."_

Henry chided himself even as he hastily reaching forward. He gingerly reached for Shawn's left shoulder, just barely edged over the couch cushion. Bending sideways, he didn't even have to lift the shoulder far before the darkened stain seeping through the couch cushions made itself clear, even in the dim glow of the outside street light.

"Oh God, kid…"


	7. Chapter 7

Despite his gentle handling efforts, Shawn moaned – weaving tendrils of cold dread around Henry's ribs. He showed no other signs of returning to awareness.

"What did you do to yourself, Pal?" Henry eased himself off the edge of the couch, not wanting to jostle his son and further aggravate his injury. Making his way in the darkened room with efficient ease, he flipped the light switch and swore in frustrated concern. Toggling up and down, as if to will the faceplate to dare defy him, he gave it a final _whack_ before striding to the end table. The conspiracy of darkness included table lamps as well as set-in fixtures. First glance would reveal him to be disgusted with the prospect of another home improvement project to tackle. In actuality, his grim visage set as he processed the insidiousness of the possibilties. Ripping the rickety drawer from the end table, he rifled through the spent AA batteries and undeveloped film rolls to retrieve a spare flashlight.

The old landline phone was within handy reach. He picked up the handset of the phone and punched in two numbers before his brain caught on that there was no dial tone. Concern for his son ate at him. Yet, years of experience screamed that this wasn't over. Until Henry had a handle on what was going on, neither Shawn nor the rest of his guests were safe. As much as he wanted to be at his son's side, ultimately he _had_ to prioritize. A quick sweep around the room with the narrow beam of the flashlight reflected the ghastly pallor of Shawn's complexion. It also revealed a preview of destruction that had found its way through his kitchen.

Unwilling to venture too far from the living room, Henry took a few more steps towards the kitchen entry. Even from this distance he could see the gaping holes in the cabinetry and drywall where, just two hours ago, there had been plumbing. The doors under the sink had been cut off their hinges, as had the underneath fixtures that used to connect to the bottom of the stainless steel basin. The luminescent beam lowered further, misty dust highlighted as it danced through the air, before illuminating the source of the sickness now punching a hole in his gut. A cordless reciprocating saw. By itself, one of the more useful tools for a myriad of projects, the likes of which Shawn squirreled out of week after week. Henry himself had three. This, he mused, was not his saw.

_They're still here!_

Executing an academy perfect about face, he set his sights on the hallway. He progressed no further than three long strides when the shortened barrel of a shotgun peered around the corner, instantly followed by its bearer. As his flashlight glinted off the weapon, he attempted to step back before his movement was halted as the shotgun was leveled at his head.

"Well, isn't this just our lucky day?" The punk couldn't have been older than twenty one. His age was tricky to determine as his stringy hair was pushed over his features by the ratty knit cap. The fact this kid was high on something took no time at all to discern. His erratic behavior screamed druggie. Henry refused to acknowledge any weakness they could feed from. However, he would have to be very careful not to push this kid too far.

"You hurt my son. I can guarantee, your luck ends today." His eyes squinted as he appraised the young vandal further. Rotten teeth, facial sores having nothing to do with typical pubescent complexion, obvious aggression, all these observations could be chalked up to meth user.

Thankfully, he didn't have to deal with the growing meth problem very often during his years on the force. They had the occasional incident towards his later years, just before his retirement. The same could not be said for officers currently employed by the SBPD as well as the rest of the country. Friday night poker nights were a great way to let off some steam, reconnect with colleagues, and keep abreast of current happenings. He had been hearing that there was an explosion, literally and figuratively, in meth usage in the past three years. Until today, the inability to purchase his favorite decongestant over the counter was the biggest inconvenience he had experienced due to the explosion of the drug's popularity. When he had more time to decompress, he would berate himself for ever wasting frustration on something so…trivial.

The punk ignored him as he fumbled through his baggy pants pockets, remarkably keeping the gun steady. He pulled out a cell phone and hit a speed dial key, his gaze never leaving Henry for a moment as he waited for the other end to pick up.

"Walker, there are more people in the house. You said it would be empty, man…yeah…we already took care of them…no…these are _more_ people…yeah, that's what I'm sayin'…but what do you want us to do?...ok, I'm out."

He snapped the phone shut and deftly returned it to the pocket of his dirty cargo pants. Motioning with the gun barrel, he herded Henry back into the living room.

Henry remained silent; not wanting to distract himself from taking in as much info as he could and tip his hand too early, until he could fully assess the situation. He allowed himself to be moved across the room. There were three intruders. Two were visibly armed. However, he wouldn't make any foolish assumptions that the third was not. Number three, being quite large in stature, currently played the part of pack mule, loaded down with various tools and surrounded by bags. Henry's eyes narrowed in anger as he observed Number three stuffing a large wheeled suitcase with wiring. _That, _he thought wryly, _would be why the phones and power are out._

A glance and a half-nod confirmed that the Gusters were okay; rattled, but okay. He would have preferred to have qualified backup with him rather than be solely responsible for the lives of three civilians. Not that he would admit or normally consider it, but he would even prefer Shawn as adequate backup over Bill and Winnie. Even though he didn't have the desire_,_ his son couldn't deny – at least to his old man - that he knew proper procedure as well as any seasoned officer when dealing with a hostage situation.

He forced his attention back to the intruders. They were gathered in a huddle, yet one of the three kept a dedicated eye on him. He strained to pick up the highlights of their conversation.

"…_don't want to stay here!"_

"_We're taking the other two…outside of…be back."_

"_How long…gone?"_

A few mumbled, unintelligible words later and the huddle broke apart; its members separated and advanced on their chosen hostages. This was not good, not good at all. They couldn't afford to be separated. Henry also couldn't afford to push the issue. He would be no good to Shawn dead. He just had to hope that his son could hold out long enough for him to find a way out of this mess. He would find a way out of this. He had to.

"Where are you taking my husband?"

"Lady, I ain't telling you again. Back off!"

"Winnie, I'll be alright." Bill tried his best to placate his wife, who appeared to Henry, to be completely unplacatory. He couldn't fault Winnie for reacting poorly. She was still shaken pretty badly from the shock of finding her son the way she had. Now, she was being forcibly separated from her husband. Of course, he and Bill weren't happy about it either.

Clearing his throat, he interjected before the situation could get further out of hand. "Winnie – I need to know that you are going to look after Shawn and Gus. They need you right now."

Picking up on his momentum, Bill chimed in. "That's right. We'll be fine knowing you have the boys taken care of." Oh yeah, she was obviously unhappy at having the mom-card played against her. That was fine by him; Henry was quite familiar at deflecting the anger of others. He'd survived worse from those much closer to him than Winnie Guster.

The couple stole an embrace before Bill was roughly pulled from his wife. Henry automatically stepped forward, but was stopped immediately by his personal bodyguard.

And with that, the two men were directed out of the room, both sparing one last glance over their shoulders. Henry drank in the sight of his vandalized home, refusing to believe it was his last – but, just in case…

His last, longest stare was reserved for his son. Still stretched out on the couch, Shawn was showing the earliest signs of restlessness. The gun at Henry's back prevented him from running back. He longed to make a move to overpower his attacker. Three against one was just too much of a gamble. It was sheer recklessness and probable suicide. As a father, he was sickened with himself. As a cop, he knew that this protocol, however unfair, was the best chance his son had.

_Hang on kiddo. Whatever it takes, I'll be back. You just have to hang on._


	8. Chapter 8

A specimen of staggering banality, Henry found himself somewhat offended by the cliché, non-descript white panel van. Parked behind his garage, it was undetectable from the beachfront where they had spent the bulk of the evening. He must have balked a second too long as he was shoved from behind, forcing his legs to catch himself before falling. He swallowed hard, forcing the retort back down.

One of the armed men walked ahead of the rest, reaching the van first and sliding open the side door before stepping to the side.

"Get in." The more experienced of the group, according to Henry's observation, reinforced the grunted command with saccadic gestures of his shotgun.

Climbing in was easier said than done as the cargo area of the van severely lacked in available floor space. Heaps of scrap metal, fixtures, wiring, and gutters were piled haphazardly. Heaving some of the larger pieces over took some effort but yielded a serviceable seating area. He and Bill carefully climbed in. The younger of the two men had already circled around the van and took his place as driver. The older slid the door closed; the grating noise heavy while symbolically shutting off a level of hope within.

"Where are you taking us?" Henry decided to take a chance at getting some information. If he was going to die, he was determined to find out why.

"Quiet." The words were spoken without emotion, prompting him to push just a bit harder.

"Okay, then _why_ are you taking us?"

"You'll find out soon enough, now quiet." He left it at that, for now. They had just passed the last line of streetlights as they ventured farther from the residential area. Without the cast of filtered light, it was nearly impossible for Henry to gauge the facial expressions of the two men up front which would directly conflict with his 'playing it safe' game plan.

Despite what his son would tell anyone who would listen, and everyone who wouldn't, he could do patience. After all, he had allowed Shawn to survive thus far. When Shawn was safely tucked away in a hospital bed, he would be sure to remind him of just that.

The van swerved sharply to the left, throwing the two rear passengers roughly into the scrap piles. The pained grunts formed a striking contrast to the sadistic mirth barely absorbed by the engine noise.

"Good one, Dawes." The passenger's commendation for the driver, apparently named Dawes – Henry noted, with a slap to the arm. 'Dawes' pulled off his dirty baseball cap and returned the compliment with a fraternal thwack of his own. The action served only to further steel his resolve as he watched the perversion of brotherhood before him. It should be Shawn and Gus exchanging friendly - and not so friendly – whaps, smacks and pinches. Taming back down the anger, Henry calmed himself again. Emotion would only cloud his judgment and prevent him from observing the entirety of his surroundings.

Henry found if he quieted his breathing and didn't jostle the salvage he could piece together the muted conversation taking place up front. Motioning to Bill to do the same, he was content to bide his time until the right opportunity presented itself. Until then, he would collect as much Intel as possible on their captors and their motivations. He had a gut feeling that these punks simply chose targets based on location and that they had no idea the identity of their victims. Their ignorance was, and would remain, his most valuable advantage.

Taking another careful look around, Henry noted that all of the scrap contained within the cargo area was comprised of copper. He had heard through various channels (and possibly a police scanner) that, due to the high scrap value of the metal, copper theft was the newest and latest crime wave to sweep the country. Ironically, and with absolutely no humor, he also realized that it was no longer the _victimless_ nuisance crime that it had been touted. His son was likely at death's door even now. He had no idea the fate of Gus or Winnie. Henry could see the oppressiveness of that burden reflected on Bill's countenance as well.

Least importantly, but indicative of the mentality they were up against, Henry's house had been trashed. Plumbing could be replaced - newer and better. Wiring could be updated. Energy efficient fixtures could be installed anew. Though it would take weeks and thousands of dollars, the house could be restored – with no small amount of insurance bureaucracy.

If anything happened to Shawn, though, nothing else mattered.

The sudden flood of gripping terror of an hour ago had receded with the tide of numbing shock. Grateful for the reprieve that lack of sensation provided, Winnie Guster once again removed the warming cloth from her son's forehead. Pushing up her sleeves, she dropped the used cloth back into the bucket of iced water at her feet. Pulling out a cooled cloth, she carefully wrung it out before folding it in thirds and placing it back on the abused temple of her son. Seizing a few more moments, she placed her hand on top of his head in a soothing gesture. The grateful moan was enough thanks for her. No, that wasn't quite accurate. Knowing her son was alive and awake was all the reinforcement she needed. These hooligans had no idea what they messed with when they decided to do battle with Winifred Guster.

Sensing that she had overran her stay at her favored station, she regretfully pushed herself off of the bench and picked up the small first-aid kit and water bucket. Slowly, she turned her back on Gus and made her way over to the couch, stealing one last look over her shoulder. With a minimum of sloshing she set the items down and repeated the process with the young man on the couch. Unlike her son, Shawn had yet to really regain consciousness. It appeared to her that he was attempting to surface but was just underneath the ability to do so. As she laid the fresh cloth on his forehead, she was startled by his sudden response.

"Mmmmmggggg" The whining cry was cut off as he started to move his head back and forth.

"Shhh!" She whispered sharply as she bent next to his ear. She knew nothing of what had happened to her husband or Henry. They were quickly separated, early after they had found the boys injured in the living room. Winnie only knew that their captors could come back any moment. Her intuition screamed at her that keeping the boys quiet was her only option to keep them safe. For now, they would just ride low and hopefully the young man serving as their jailer would continue to ignore them. She dared not try and find a phone or call for help. Every time she had entertained the thought, the kid would magically appear nearby. For now, her ministrations were allowed and she yearned to maintain status quo by not drawing any attention their way.

Far be it for the young man before her to actually start listening now. She tried not to be irritated with him since she knew he couldn't help himself. He was seriously hurt and obviously in a great deal of pain. Her first knee-jerk reaction with the younger Spencer was always irritation first, then investigation for inevitable damages, followed up by vindication as her prodding always yielded evidence that her initial irritation was perfectly justified. Twenty five years of experience with the young man was not easily set aside. Considering the unknown status of her husband and her concern for her son, she had to again remind herself that she couldn't afford to dwell on old irritations. She simply had to care for her son and his friend until her husband and Henry came back.

They _were_ coming back. And when they did, she would allow herself to panic and wail and fall apart.

Shakily wiping her hand on her slacks, she demanded that they too quieted. Three deep calming breaths and again she felt herself centering.

Offering up another prayer for the safety of her family, she again pushed herself up and readied herself for another change in her duty station. Stooping to pick up the traveling items, she noticed Shawn's growing unrest. Gently, she smoothed the stray lock of hair back on his forehead and whispered quiet assurances she didn't quite believe; satisfied when he quieted down she continued her interrupted task and wearily made her way back to check on Burton.

Her fatigue must have given herself away in the less than graceful way she eased herself back onto the bench beside her son.

"Mom? You doing okay?" His voice didn't have the same depth that she always associated with Burton. Never a strong or athletic voice, it did always have a tenor that was uniquely his – strong in its own way.

"Don't you worry about me any, Burton." She took the cloth from his hands, before plopping it back in the bucket – uncaring of the splash on the floor. Once again, she draped him with a fresh, cool cloth.

"Now, how is your stomach?"

"The same. Nothing you can do about it."

"I know. I'm sorry." It was hard for her to admit. She was a fixer. There was never a scrape she couldn't kiss or a hurt she couldn't feed away when he was a boy. There were many hurts and scrapes all through his growing years; the result of his chosen alliance with the Spencer boy.

"Not your fault." Her Burton – always wanting to take care of her. He was a good boy, just like his father in that regard. If he ever got himself married, he would make a wonderful, caring husband. Another sigh of regret couldn't be stopped.

"How's Shawn?" She debated how much to keep from him. After all, she was a keeper too. It was her nature to protect and nurture with a fierceness that would rival any mama bear, post-hibernation. This, however, was an altogether different situation. She knew she couldn't do this alone. She wasn't equipped for this, and though it pained her, she would have to lean on someone else for some support. She didn't know if Burton was any more equipped than she, but what choice did she really have? She desperately tried to fight back the nagging feeling that they may only have each other to lean on in the future. Once again, her fear for her husband threatened to overtake her.

Biting back those negative thoughts and focusing again on the issue at hand, she forced herself to meet his half lidded gaze.

"He hasn't really woken up yet." She immediately placed her hand on his chest and forced him to recline back in position. She wouldn't have him getting up and hurting himself again.

"I have to check on Shawn."

"You will stay just where you are, young man."

She gave him a few more minutes to collect himself as he considered whether or not he wanted to relieve himself of his dinner now or continue his attempt to get out of the chair and lose it a few steps away. Apparently he made his decision as he leaned back with a shaky moan.

"What did they do to him?" Gus asked as he peeked out from the cloth he pressed tightly to his head.

"He was shot in the back. I don't know how badly, but he doesn't look good."

"No! Let me go!" She shouldn't have been surprised by his sudden attempt to launch himself out of the chair. She was surprised, however, by the speed with which he did so. The outburst was short lived and for a moment she thought he might pass out.

"Burton - settle down this instant! If you want to help Shawn, you will stay put." She eyed him with a hard stare, just long enough to distract him for his dizziness to settle him back down the rest of the way. She noted that he never took his eyes off of his friend even as he painfully tried to regain control of himself. She appreciated his loyalty. She always did, really, even if she didn't understand it.

"Where's Dad?" She really didn't want to go into this. They couldn't afford the risk of his outbursts and he couldn't afford aggravating his head and upsetting his stomach. But, he was a bright boy. It's not like she could keep his father's obvious absence a secret.

"Two men took him and Henry a little while ago."

"What? No!" The weak struggle was quickly aborted with another well placed hand. Winnie again, pushed back her concern at the slight pressure it took to keep him down.

"Son, you have to stay quiet." She continued in a whisper. "There's still a man in this house. We can't make any waves. We just have to hold on until your father gets back."

She allowed him to settle again. The stress lines never left his face and his worry was palpable. She was sure she could hear his pulse through the floorboards. She was also well aware that she would have her hands full keeping him in his seat once he started feeling the slightest bit better. She would have to spend more time with her other charge in order to satisfy her son's overwhelming concern.

"Burton – you listen to me. Your father will be fine. He's a strong man and he keeps his head. He and Henry can take care of themselves. They would want us to be strong and keep our heads too. We have to for Shawn's sake. Do you understand?"

She briefly thought that he _didn't _understand; that the effects of the concussion were pulling him under again. After he exhaled a shaky breath and took in a few more, he looked her square in the eye and nodded. _There_ was her Burton. She needed that focus and determination.

Maybe…just maybe, they would make it after all.


	9. Chapter 9

They weren't taken as far away as Henry would have guessed. He knew from the first glance that the area was familiar. Though he couldn't place a name with their general location, he recognized it as one of several family run vegetable farms just outside the city limits. The roundabout route was meant to throw them off. He could tell from Bill's expression that the plan didn't work for him either. Idiots.

His knees revolted in obvious displeasure as he eased himself from the cramped quarters. Proper posture would have to come in increments as he was unable to stand fully upright just yet. As he placed his palms on his lower back and stretched in earnest, Henry took the opportunity to look around. The field had taken on an eerie translucence, ripe with dew and reflecting the silver of a waxing moon.

They were not alone. Five hundred yards away, another small crew of men worked to repair a length of irrigation pipeline. Henry found himself more confused until the supposed _repair_ crew successfully removed, what he had originally assumed to be, a broken length of pipe and pitched it onto a flatbed trailer. He was no metallurgist. Even still, he was pretty handy in his own right. Dollars to donuts, he just knew that the tubing joining the growing heap on the flatbed had to be copper.

_They need an extra set of hands. _ It was all starting to come together now. The disjointed conversation he'd picked up back at the house plus the phone calls back and forth between the thugs and their mysterious ringleader. Henry had to give them at least a little credit. They were more organized than he originally thought. Not that it mattered much. He would still see to it that they received their fill of metal. Though, he was thinking more along the lines of the iron bars or lead bullets variety.

"Boy, Dawes really did a number on him, huh!"

Winnie didn't realize she was staring off into space until she startled at the statement. She looked up just in time to see the kid leaning over the back of the couch, staring at the helpless victim below. Clenching her jaw, she resolutely looked away not wanting to give him the benefit of her attention.

Not to say she didn't keep watch out of the corner of her eye…

She could feel his stare, though she couldn't see it. It sent a shiver down her spine before clenching painfully in her lower back, causing her to gasp. She cursed herself for the slip as it drew the young man's attention her way.

_No…_

He slowly edged near, eyes flicking back and forth between her and her son. Her pulse quickened and she felt Burton stirring next to her. She placed a calming hand on his knee, silently pleading him to stay asleep.

"Trek had lots of fun with you. I haven't had any fun yet. But since they left me behind, maybe it's my turn now." He oozed his way closer to them, hoisting his gun on his shoulder, advancing until he arrived toe to toe with her son. She kept her eyes averted, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Until, the punk kicked at Burton and the words were out before she could pull them back.

"Don't you dare touch him!" She ground out in hateful tones. So much for staying under the radar. Fully invested in keeping the kid's attention off of her son, she fixed him in a full on glare.

When he lowered his gun, she knew she pushed him too far. Winnie could no longer swallow the dryness in her throat as she fully realized her mistake. With her gone, who would watch after him until her husband got back?

The kid's eyes narrowed and then without warning he began laughing. "Nah, that's alright. We got all night and the fun's just starting. Don't worry, Ma'am – you'll get to play later when the kids are gone." He taunted over his shoulder as he sauntered back to the couch. With his eyes locked on her, he made a complete circle around the prone man.

She knew – _she knew – _that he was well aware of what he was doing, playing on conflicting emotions of guilt and relief. She may have succeeded to where it may not be _her_ son experiencing the torment, but she just shifted the burden on the shoulders of a dying man. How could she live with herself after this, if she lived after this at all? If Burton were awake right now, he would be horrified. He would gladly have accepted the treatment in his friend's stead. Knowing this, _why_ couldn't she bring herself to speak up even now? She tried – oh, how she tried. Again and again her mouth would open, but no words would form. Instead, she sank further into despair over her inability to take action.

Had the scenario been less dire, Henry could have taken a measure of pride in his work. He and Bill Guster had shown their taskmasters just how much men of their years could accomplish by performing as much work in a half hour as the previous crew had completed over the course of an evening. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to give them some pointers. Just because they were lawless didn't mean they couldn't learn a few trade skills. They simply didn't have a clue that he would see to it they had a bright future ahead…stamping license plates. Assuming, of course, that they lived that long.

Grunty and Pointy (as he had nicknamed them) once again grunted and pointed, indicating they were supposed to head back towards the van. As they made their way back across the field, conflicting emotions warred within; relief that the hard, physical task was done - uncertainty of what they would find when they returned…if they returned. As far as Henry knew, they had served their purpose and no longer had any reason for being left alive. That understanding just didn't sit well with him.

He needed a plan and he needed one fast.

The decline in Shawn's condition was frightening. Though she couldn't see the rise of his chest signaling breath, she could hear the wheezing that accompanied each.

"Hey buddy – how you doin'?"

The inquiry was not spoken in concern, as evidenced by the manic, almost giddy, laugh that followed. Any other doubt was put to rest as the kid proceeded to poke Shawn mercilessly. He laughed louder as his continual torment finally registered a response from the unconscious man.

At Shawn's groan of pain, Winnie felt a white-hot swell of anger surge within her. If an opportunity ever existed for a volunteer army to rise up and put Shawn Spencer in his place, she would proudly admit hers would be the first foot to cross the proverbial line in the sand. That was _her _right, not this pathetic excuse for a punk human being. Shawn may not have had a proper upbringing, in her opinion, but her son thought the world of him. She had history with him. To see him being mistreated this way caused a bubble of maternal instinct to form and grow and spill over into something reminiscent of pure, bruin rage.

'_It's now or never'_

Winnie quietly made her way over to the mantelpiece, eyeing the fireplace for anything of use. Cautiously, she reached up and gently grasped the brass candlestick, relieved at the heft of the piece. Slowly, she advanced on the captor as he continued to delight himself by poking endlessly at his helpless victim. Privately, she was grateful for the resulting groans; they steeled her resolve to take action and end this, once and for all.

In one fluid movement, one that would make her daddy proud, she brought the garage sale special down on the unprotected head – dropping him instantly.

She should have foreseen the consequences as he fell heavily onto the very man she had sought to protect. The cry was harsh and sharp, the mist glistening in his eyes matching her own. Ironically, the previous torment served to draw him to the surface just so he could be fully aware of the pain induced as a result of her intervention. There wasn't time for guilt, though.

_It's for his own good. _

_Life is hard, painful, and unfair. _

_When this is over, I'll bake him cookies._

That resolute promise did the trick, bringing her back to action. Motherhood required her to make tough decisions, sometimes being forced into the role of the bad guy for the greater good. This was such a time.

With a grunt of effort, she managed to pull the now unconscious man off of the couch. Her efforts had been gentle, desperately trying to minimize further injury to the struggling figure trapped underneath. Once the thug had cleared the edge of the cushion, an unrestrained shove plummeted him – none too gently – to the floor. The dull slap of boneless meat on hardwood satisfied her baser instincts. Tomorrow, these feelings would likely disturb and frighten her. Tomorrow was tomorrow; right here and now, Winnie reveled in relief. It was time to get her boys some help.

She quickly stepped over the body on the floor, if she happened to accidently grind her heel onto exposed fingers…well, accidents happen. Offering another prayer of thanks, she kneeled next to her son's chair. He was already starting to wake up, but a little gentle expedition was necessary.

"Burton!" No response prompted her to take his face in her hands, turning him to meet her gaze. Finally, he seemed to register her presence. "Burton, I need your help. We have to go. Come on now."

With slow progress she assisted him to his feet as she offered words of encouragement. Unsteady as those feet may be, with every step he grew slightly stronger. Besides, there was just no way she could do this on her own. She had to have help. Her ultimate goal was to leave this house and make their way to a hospital. With two wounded charges in her care, her expectations would have to be downgraded and tackled piecemeal. Baby step number one; get to the couch. After that happened, she would figure out what baby step number two would be.

Winnie helped Gus ease himself against the arm of the couch, allowing him to rest and regroup. She gently lowered herself onto the edge of the cushions. Slowly, she smoothed back sweaty tendrils from the heated forehead.

"Wake up, Shawn. It's all over." The words were spoken gently, but with a firm undertone offering no other option. Shawn's eyes fluttered before finally remaining open.

"It's r-really over?" Cold shivers gripped him as he blinked heavily, trying to make sense of his surroundings.

"That's right, honey. Can you get up?" It may have been a question, but she gave him no time to respond. Instead, she lifted herself up and pivoted on her heel before bending to swing Shawn's legs over the edge, resting gently on the floor. His piercing cries of pain tore through her, making her repeated apologies feel trivial. She wasn't a lazy or uninitiated woman in any way. But her normal activities didn't lend themselves towards lifting bodies heavier than herself with ease. It took a lot of effort as she took on the role of primary lifter. As gently as possible, she eased her arm under his back and supported him as Burton helped pull. Slowly, they got him relatively upright. She only allowed the boys a minute to recover. It wasn't enough; Lord knows they needed more, but that was all she could give them. They _had_ to make it out of the house if they had any chance at all.

Even slower, the trio made their way through the darkened house and out onto the driveway. Every bit of ground gained hard won in the battle of shuffling one foot in front of the other. She knew Shawn was trying. For every footfall he proved on his own, they dragged him three as his legs would entangle themselves. Every time he would catch his foot, usually on his other leg, he couldn't hold back the groan as he jarred himself sharply.

A thousand apologies divided between herself and her son at the agony they caused and they finally made it to the drive. She steered them straight for the Cutlass. Awkwardly and with no shortage of pained grunts all the way around, she and Burton managed to get Shawn lain down in the backseat.

The bluish, fluorescent lighting cast hard shadows through the car. Winnie strained her eyes as she fumbled with her keys, finally finding the familiar key. Wasting no more time, she rammed the metal in the ignition and gave it a harsh turn.

Nothing.

Again and again, she cranked the ignition in desperation.

"Dad did fill up the tank, right?" Burton muttered from his position, resting his forehead against the cool window glass.

She nodded roughly. "You know he did. Your father never runs the car past three quarters of a tank. Where does Henry keep his keys?"

Her son looked at her in confusion before finally catching up with the conversation. "Umm, I don't know. Why?"

"We'll take his truck."

"Desk…drawer." The weakened voice from behind could barely be heard over her pulse thumping in her ears.

"Shawn!" At least her son was showing _that _much awareness.

"Which drawer, Shawn?" Her tone was clipped and fast, urging him to a fast answer.

"Desk…by back door…mmmmmm…right side."

A bloodied hand thrust through the suddenly opened driver's side door, jangling a keyring just under her nose.

"These keys?"

She thought the maniacal laughter would haunt her dreams for years to come.


End file.
